The phone rings, Mimmy checking in on her day off. “Everything going okay? Did you get the washer to work? The knob can be a little finnicky, I’ve been putting it right on the edge between permanent press and—”
“Mimmy,” I say, sighing. I hop up to sit on the front desk, legs dangling over the construction-cone-orange YOGA EVERY DAMN DAY sign taped under the register. “You need to learn to enjoy your rare days away from this place. That’s why I’m here. I got this. It’s nothing but Zen here. Only one broken neck so far this morning. We’re totally good.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief! A broken neck, psh. A handstand is only exciting because of the risks! I broke my nose the first time I got up in the air.” She’s most likely grinning to herself as she rubs the tiny, entirely negligible bump on her nose, her war trophy she reminds me of at least once a week.
We say our goodbyes and I jump down from the counter, pick a few dead leaves off the fiddle-leaf fig tree next to me, wonder what in the world I’m going to do for six more hours. I should have brought a book.
I pull out my phone to text Ginger, but because we are cosmically connected, she chooses that exact moment to strut through the front door, a little tinny gong sounding as it opens and closes. She’s in her typical yoga attire: animal-print leggings—a mashup of giraffe spots and zebra stripes—and a neon-pink sports bra.
“Hey, doll,” she says, giving me a full-body squeeze. “I figured you’d be bored by now. I had the predawn shift at the diner today and chugged way too much coffee for a nap. So lucky you, here I am.”
“You know the next class doesn’t start for an hour, though, right? I assume based on the fact that you’re wearing a bra for a shirt that you’re planning on actually sweating on a mat at some point.”
“Eh, I don’t really care. I was trying to fit in with the aesthetic, plus”—she wiggles her eyebrows, grinning at me—“you told me Penelope’s mom comes in some weekends for classes. Maybe her lovely daughter will be getting tired of endless summer days.”
“Mm-hmm, right, so not here to see me at all then?”
“Not true,” she says, grabbing a spare yoga mat from the shelf by the counter and unrolling it on the floor. She plops down, making herself at home in the middle of the lobby. “Though I do feel like I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“You’ve barely seen me? We had movie night Monday. You came over for lunch on Wednesday. And then we boiled ourselves in the hot pool for a few hours on Thursday.”
“Okay, so yes, I technically saw you. But Max was there every time. I couldn’t pry. Or talk about my raging cramps. Or the hot dream I had about making out with some random cheerleader behind the bleachers.”
“You can talk about your period with Max—you talk about it all the time in front of Noah. And you can talk about your dreams, too.”
“Firstly, Noah doesn’t count. And, um, did you hear me say cheerleader? I’m not admitting that out loud to anyone else. It’s not my brand.”
I sit next to her on the yoga mat and stare her down. “What’s definitely not your brand is to not speak your mind. Do you think I’m spending too much time with Max?”
She holds out her hand, studying her fingers—each nail a different shade of green. “No. I’m not saying that.”
“I want to spend time with all three of you. That’s the whole point.”
“The whole point of not dating, you mean?” She smirks, batting her corn-silk lashes at me.
“We don’t like each other like that.”
“Sure, girlfriend. Whatever you say.” Her smirk is still there, smirkier than ever. “I want you to have that alone time. I’m giving you that—with my blessing. Because if there’s something there, you should admit it. Embrace it. Just give me some solo time once in a while to ramble on about secretive, sexy womanly things, okay?”
“Of course we can hang out, just you and me. But there’s nothing to admit. I’ve known him for a week.”
She waves her hand, dismissing the subject. “What about tomorrow? The Fourth? Are we still watching together from the top of the hill?” It’s the best view in town for the Green Woods fireworks. The three of us go there every year for the holiday—a time-honored tradition.
My mouth drops. I look over at her. “You shouldn’t even have to ask. The Fourth is sacred.”
“Just checking. I hope Noah comes.”
“Um. Why wouldn’t he?”
“He’s…”
“He’s what? Don’t tell me he has to work. I will personally drag him out of the sandwich line at Wawa if he’s not at my house tomorrow evening.”
She scoots closer to me, leans her head on my shoulder. I get a strong whiff of her trademark ginger-coconut shampoo. It smells endlessly better than Mimmy’s overpriced perfume. “No, not work. I think it’s just hard for him—having you spend time with another boy, even if it’s platonic.” I ignore the emphasis. “We tried to hang out yesterday just the two of us while you were at the studio, and it was like a tricycle with a wobbly flat tire on one of the back wheels. We could move, kind of, but not very gracefully and not for very long. I bowed out before we could crash. Lied and told him I felt a
